The conversational ripple became a cascade. Angbard brought his gavel down again and again. “Silence, I say silence! I will have silence.”

Finally the room was quiet enough for him to continue. “A decision was taken to bring Helge into the Clan. I personally took responsibility for this. Her, ah, induction, was not an immediate success. Upon her arrival here a number of unexpected events transpired. In particular, it appears that someone wanted her dead—someone who couldn’t tell the difference between a thirty-two-year-old countess and a twenty-three-year-old chatelaine, traveling together. In the interests of clarity I must add that nobody in this room is presently under suspicion.”

Miriam’s scalp prickled. Glancing aside she realized that half the eyes in the room were pointed at her. She sat up and looked back at Angbard.

“I believe we now have evidence enough to confirm the identity of the parties behind the attacks on Patricia and Alfredo, and on Patricia’s daughter, Helge. These same parties are accused of fomenting the civil war that split this Clan into opposing factions fifty-seven years ago—” Uproar. Angbard sat back and waited for almost a minute, then brought his gavel down again—“Silence, please! I intend to present the witnesses that Clan Security has uncovered before you in due course. The floor will then be opened for motions bearing on the matter at hand.” He turned to his neighbor, an elderly gentleman who until this point appeared to have been half asleep on his throne. “Julius, if you please?…”

“Aha!” The old scarecrow bolted upright, raised a wobbling hand, and declaimed: “calling the first witness—” He peered at a paper that Angbard slid before him, and muttered—“can’t call her, she’s dead, dammit!”

“No, she isn’t,” retorted Angbard.

“Oh, alright then. Think I’m senile, do you?” Julius stood up. “Calling Patricia Thorold-Hjorth.”

Half the room were on their feet shouting as the side door behind the table opened. Miriam had to stand, too, to see over heads to where Brilliana was entering the room, pushing a wheelchair containing her mother. Who looked bemused and rather nervous at being the focus of such uproarious attention.

“Did they take her motorized chair away to stop her running?” Miriam asked Olga.

“Oh, no—”

“Order! Order or I shall have the guards—order I say!”

Slowly order was restored. “That’s odd,” quavered Julius, “I was sure she was dead.” A ripple of laughter spread.

“So was I,” Iris—Patricia—called from her chair. Brill steered her over to one side of the table.

“Why did you run away?” asked Oliver Hjorth, leaning sideways so he could see her, an unpleasant expression of impatience on his face.